


Double-shot Mocha with Hazelnut Syrup

by annagarny



Series: New York State of Mind [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annagarny/pseuds/annagarny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They met, not through SHIELD like everyone seemed to think, but in a coffee shop on Sixth (Clint refused to call it Avenue of The Americas and Phil quietly agreed with him) and had a brief but intense staring contest when the barista called out the extra large double-shot mocha with hazelnut syrup.</p>
<p>Phil won that round, only because within a few seconds the barista announced that there were, in fact, two of those drinks. That, and Clint spotted his sidearm concealed under the charcoal grey Dolce suit and decided that he valued his kneecaps more than the victory of getting the first coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double-shot Mocha with Hazelnut Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the New York State of Mind series, but it is about how Phil and Clint first met - around the time of the New Mexico Incident.

They met, not through SHIELD like everyone seemed to think, but in a coffee shop on Sixth (Clint refused to call it Avenue of The Americas and Phil quietly agreed with him) and had a brief but intense staring contest when the barista called out the extra large double-shot mocha with hazelnut syrup.

 

Phil won that round, only because within a few seconds the barista announced that there were, in fact, two of those drinks. That, and Clint spotted Phil’s sidearm concealed under the navy Dolce suit and decided that he valued his kneecaps more than the victory of getting the first coffee.

 

Three days later they were both in line, again, when Phil recognized Clint as the guy who had the same coffee order as he did. Being ahead in the queue, not to mention feeling particularly altruistic as he'd just been told that his next assignment would be in Malibu, he ordered two and caught Clint's eye, tilting his head to indicate that Clint should follow him.

 

Clint stepped out of line, as Phil indicated, with a half-smile in greeting and held out a hand.

"Clint."

"Phil. Sorry about the other day, I was kind of on edge." they shook hands and Phil wasn't surprised, given the scruffy jeans and torn sleeves on the black t-shirt, to feel calluses on Clint's palm. A laborer of some sort, something with his hands, perhaps something outdoors, as there was no paint of drywall dust on the man's clothing and his arms were tanned.

"The way your fingers were inching towards that Beretta was kind of a giveaway. Better, now?"

Phil, ever the master of the bland expression, didn't let his surprise that Clint had apparently identified his sidearm from a brief glimpse, perhaps as his jacket had moved, show on his face. His assessment of Clint immediately went up a couple of notches and he revised his opinion - this guy had to be a mercenary, or ex-military, to identify the weapon so readily.

"Much. Even ordered you a coffee to make up for it. Double-shot hazelnut mocha?"

"Good memory."

"It's what I always get. No matter what my co-workers think, I do not run on sarcasm and adrenaline." As soon as the words were out, Phil regretted them. There was no way in hell that Clint would let that comment go without a question about Phil's occupation, and that would mean sidestepping and covering up and very likely the ending of whatever conversation they were having. Sometimes being part of a top-secret organization, even one like SHIELD, had its' downsides.

"Huh. Mine think that I'm fueled by snark and scaring the shit out of people." Clint mused, his smile widening to an infectious grin that Phil could barely stop himself from returning. His lips did twitch a little, which, for Phil,was about as close as it got.

 

The barista called out their order and the moment ended, Clint picked up the cups, handing one to Phil with another smile, turning and making for the door with an easy grace that Phil did his best not to notice.

 

>>

>>>

>>>>

>>>>>

 

It took them another two weeks to encounter each other through SHIELD, and that was when they were in New Mexico, on an assignment. 

Phil entered the tiny coffee shop attached to the gas station and heard a familiar order being called.

His head snapped up and his eyes found Clint immediately, but Clint didn't see Phil, his eyes were closed and his head tipped back, exposing the tanned line of his throat above a fitted black and burgundy leather combat vest. Phil's eyes definitely did not skim down the lean line of Clint's torso to the black combat pants, tight in all the right places, and across the sliver of pale skin exposed between vest and low-slung waistband as Clint drained half the no-doubt scalding coffee in one swallow.

 

The sigh that escaped Clint's lips as he finished his mouthful of coffee awoke something in the base of Phil's skull that he thought had either been dead or forever dormant, so long had it been since anything or anyone had evoked that reaction. He was glad that he was still wearing his mirrored aviators, meaning that Clint (hopefully) couldn't see his pupils dilating, but that didn't stop his heart hammering and his breath coming in short gasps for a few seconds as he closed his eyes and struggled to compose himself.

 

When he opened his eyes again he found Clint standing two feet in front of him, one eyebrow raised, but aside from that, he seemed simply nonplussed.

"Hi." Phil greeted him, not quite trusting himself to take his sunglasses off, yet.

"Hi." somehow, Clint managed to inject 'what the fuck are you doing here?' into that one syllable.

Phil decided not to beat around the bush.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question, but going from the badge on your belt and the hands-on-hips stance, I'd have to guess that you're here for the same reason I am."

Phil, again, held out a hand. "Phil Coulson, head agent, on this case, for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." sometimes he liked to say the whole name, just to see the looks on people's faces. That and it gave him a couple of precious moments to regulate his breathing before taking his sunglasses off and sliding them into his jacket pocket.

"Clint Barton, code name Hawkeye, SHIELD sharp-shooter." they shook hands again and Clint's grin emerged. "How have we not met at work before this?" he asked, "I'm damn sure I would remember seeing you on the range."

"I've been in Malibu, babysitting Tony Stark, until yesterday. I got sent out to the crater to investigate this thing and called for a team. How the hell did you end up out here?"

"Fury wanted me out of the office in New York. I nailed his assistant last week and he was sick of hearing the guy complain that I hadn't called him, so gave me a reason to be a bit distant."

Phil's expression faltered for just the barest moment, but with a nickname like Hawkeye, he held little hope that the slip would have escaped Barton's notice. Clint did notice, and didn't hesitate to fill in the gap.

"Yes, I slept with Nick Fury's very straight, very annoying, very clingy assistant. I do a lot of dumb things - you should know that about me."

"On a dare? The guy is the biggest douche at SHIELD, and that's coming from someone who had to spend the last three days with Tony Stark."

"How do you know that he's a douche? I've never seen you at HQ."

"My office is on the forty-third floor, behind Director Fury's. You've probably never come any further down that hallway than to Fury's door, so of course you've never seen me. And believe me, I would only have had to meet that guy once to know that he is a douche. But you said he's straight?" That certainly did not mesh with the open and lewd flirting that Phil was subjected to every time he went to see the director, which was more often than he would like.

"Yeah, straight. Self-proclaimed 'saved from the evils of homosexuality' bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Didn't stop him staring at my ass, though, so when I caught him spying on me at the shooting range I cornered him in the showers and fucked him until he couldn't walk or talk properly. Fury threatened me with a promotion, but he knows I don't wear suits. No offense."

"None taken." Phil told him, keeping his voice level with a supreme effort, as his mind was conjuring rather vivid images of exactly how one might fuck someone until they couldn't talk, or walk, properly. Just the mental picture was enough for Phil's mouth to go dry.

 

There was also the fact that the vague question of Clint’s sexuality had been rather graphically cleared up, 

"You want a coffee?" Clint asked, apparently unaware of the effect his words were having on the seemingly unflappable Agent Coulson.

"Yeah, yes. Please." Phil reached into the inside pocket of his jacket but was stopped by the gentle pressure of Clint's hand on his wrist.

"You got the last one, my treat."

 

Twenty minutes later they were sitting at one of the tables outside the gas station, the New Mexico desert sun barely mitigated by the flimsy umbrella shading them. 

 

“How are you going in that leather?” Phil asked, trying not to be too obvious as his eyes traced the beads of sweat sliding down Clint’s neck. Thankfully, here in direct sunlight, he had an excuse to have his mirrored sunglasses back on.

  
Clint’s eyes were similarly shaded, matte black rather than reflective, as suited a sniper, and his mouth quirked slightly before he answered.

 

“I could ask the same of you - you’ve got at least three layers on, not to mention, that suit is black.”  
“Dark grey, actually, and what makes you think there’s three layers?”

“You’re sensible, ex-military, no way in hell would you not wear an undershirt.”

 

Phil inclined his head slightly at that - Clint was completely correct. He had a white tank top on underneath his pale blue shirt, but he also knew that Clint would be in much the same position.

  
“Did SHIELD issue some kind of special material to go under that vest? Because I can’t imagine it would be too comfortable directly on your skin, you know, chafing and all.”

“Something Stark came up with, apparently, this thing is multi-layered and the inside layer is some special material that breathes so I don’t get sticky. Or chafe, much.”

“Huh, figures. He’d have had to come up with something to wear under that damn suit.”

 

They spent the next half hour talking about nothing much, neither entirely sure what the other was cleared for and dancing around sensitive topics, but when Clint’s current handler approached and saw that Barton was chatting with the head agent, he sped up, thinking something had gone awry.

 

“Sir, whatever’s happened, I’m certain that we can-”

 

Phil cut the guy off before he could say anything that might be self-incriminating.

 

“Nothing’s happened, Agent Barton and I were just discussing field equipment. Are we moving out?”  
“Yes, sir, you ordered a forty minute break, it’s been thirty-five.”  
“Great. Load up. Barton, you’re with me. Miller, I’m reassigning Barton to top-tier, he’s under my supervision, you’re in charge of general security.”

“Yes, sir.” The younger agent seemed a little confused for a moment, but apparently knew better than to question the decree of Phil Coulson, he simply turned and started gesturing to the rest of the men, shepherding them towards the waiting cars and vans.

 

Clint didn’t even raise an eyebrow at the sudden change in his position, just picked up the two empty coffee cups and disposed of them before trailing after Phil to one of the seven black Acura’s parked behind the gas station.

 

“So, how far is it to this crater?” Clint asked, settling into the passenger seat and noting that this was the only car that didn’t have additional passengers.  
“Fifty miles.”  
“Good thing I bought my iPod.”

“Yeah, I’m driving, I pick the music.”  
“Got any Billy Joel?”

 

Phil did actually smile a little at that, pulling his own iPod out of the centre console and handing it to Clint.

 

“Take a look for yourself.”

 

That night, a big blonde guy broke the perimeter that Phil had ordered set up around the crater, and Phil got a chance to put his shiny new pet sniper to use.

 

“I need eyes up high, with a gun.” he told the open radio frequency, knowing from their chat in the car that afternoon that Clint had arranged for one of the cranes that had helped build their temporary space set up with remote controls - he could be eighty feet in the air above the centre of the compound in a matter of moments.

 

It wasn’t a conscious act of defiance on Clint’s part, it was more the tone that Phil used that made Clint drop his hands from the rifle and select his compound bow instead. He’d picked up something in the way he’d said ‘with a gun’ gave Clint the impression that it was only because he was talking on an open radio frequency that he asked for lethal force.

 

Clint took the bow from the wall of the van and leapt out of the back, feet slipping slightly in the mud and he ran through the pelting rain to his nest, tossing the bow in and vaulting into it, picking the bow up with one hand and the controls with the other, lifting himself into the sky and over the centre of the hastily-assembled site around the object embedded in the rock.

 

“Barton? Talk to me.” Clint’s earpiece crackled and he couldn’t help but wisecrack when he heard Coulson confirming his position.  
“You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?” Clint countered, thumb at his jaw as he sighted along the arrow, his eyes following the path of destruction the intruder was leaving behind.

“I’ll let you know.” Barely twenty words and each was aware of the others’ position and exactly what he was willing to do.

His eyes briefly flickered to the object at the centre of the compound - no matter what the goons were telling the general public, it was a freaking hammer embedded in stone with weird runes engraved on the sides - before he continued his tracking of the intruder as the man burst from the end of one tunnel, grappling with one of the biggest guards on site. The pair wrestled in the mud for a few seconds before the intruder got to his feet and delivered a devastating two-foot kick to the guard’s chest, sending him flying, then got back onto his feet and with another kick had the guard down for the count.

 

Clint’s mouth twitched as he watched, thinking that maybe they needed to get this guy on their side, rather than aggravating him further. He was moving with a single-mindedness that Clint couldn’t help but admire - he didn’t even glance down at the man he had just taken out, instead his attention was all on the hammer at the centre of the complex.

 

“You better call it, Coulson, ‘cause I’m starting to root for this guy.” Clint muttered as the intruder began to stomp through the mud, forcing Clint to angle his bow almost straight down - he’d positioned his nest practically on top of the hammer. He watched, his thumb on his pulse and the bow still drawn as the man approached the hammer. When the big guy got to within reaching distance, he spoke again.

 

“Last chance, sir.”

“Wait. I want to see this.” Coulson told him, and Clint’s eyes flickered briefly to where he could make out the top of Coulson’s head, leaning over a railing two levels up from the ground, intent on the figure alone at the centre of the compound.

 

Under the floodlights beaming onto the hammer, Clint could see the intruder clearly for the first time - he was a six-foot behemoth, covered in mud from his tumble with the guard a minute ago, with hair hanging to his chin and a rough beard covering most of his jaw. 

 

Clint held his position, the bow singing in his ear over the pelting rain, as the man took hold of the hammer with both hands and, like every other person who had been within ten feet of it that day, attempted to tug it out of the rock.

 

The look of surprise on his face when it didn’t budge was almost comical, but instead of smiling, Clint felt a stab of pity for the guy - he’d fought his way through some of SHIELD’s most highly trained agents to get here and now, apparently, the thing he had come for wouldn’t move.

 

For a few fruitless seconds the guy continued to tug at the hammer’s handle, the muscles in his forearms roping as he began to yell, bracing one foot against the rock it was embedded in before stepping back and looking at his hands then tipping his head up, eyes unseeing, and looked straight past Clint in his nest to something in the sky above, releasing a shout of frustration that Clint could definitely sympathize with and dropping to his knees, defeated, in the mud below the sniper.

 

“Alright, show’s over. Ground units, move in.” Came Phil’s ever-calm voice over the radio.

 

Clint raised his bow and looked down across the gap between them, meeting Phil’s eyes for the first time since they’d parted company at the car that afternoon, raising one eyebrow in a brief question. Phil just nodded, the movement barely perceptible, as the agents around him scurried to do his bidding.

 

“You coming down, Barton?” he spoke into the radio, even though he knew it wasn’t necessary, Clint could easily read his lips from that distance.  
“Think the others can handle it, sir?”

“Get down from there. And next time I tell you to take a gun, take a god-damn gun, not that... thing.”

“Yes, sir.”  


Clint’s eyes were drawn down again to where the intruder was being handcuffed and lifted to his feet, pushed up the stairs and through the complex towards one of the interrogation rooms.

 

Clint lifted the controls for his nest and lowered himself back to the mud, shaking water out of his hair as he stomped back towards the van to return his bow to the weapons locker.

 

Fifteen minutes later he was standing in the middle of the surveillance room, adding his own muddy footprints to the collection and scrubbing a hand through his soaked hair, shaking his head a little in a fruitless attempt to remove the water that was blocking one ear.

He looked up as the door of the interrogation room slid open and Phil emerged, pristine. 

“How do you do that?” Clint asked, looking from his own sodden form to Coulson’s clean, dry suit and back again.

“You’re the one who called me a ninja.” Phil’s mouth quirked a little at the incredulity in Clint’s expression. “I wanted to be dry to interrogate the guy. If it makes you feel any better I couldn’t find a clean undershirt so I’m down to two layers.”

 

Again, he had spoken to Clint without thinking about the consequences of the words - he realized about three seconds too late just how badly Barton might misinterpret that sentence.

“Fair enough, sir. I’m going to get changed, myself. It looks like it’s stopped raining, anyway.”

“You do that, but stay close, I might need you... for the report.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

Phil came back out of the interrogation room a half hour later, having gotten less than nothing out of his prisoner, and stepped over to his desk.

 

There was a paper cup of coffee sitting there, next to his keyboard, and there was writing, in purple Sharpie, scrawled on the lid.

 

‘Double shot mocha, no hazelnut, sorry. -Clint’ 

 

For the second time that day, setting some kind of record, a genuine smile graced Phil’s lips. 

 

And for something that had to have been bastardized from the brown water that passed for coffee out here in the temporary site and what appeared to be a crumbled candy bar, the drink wasn’t half bad. 


End file.
